


Drained

by Clearfear



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Daredevil - Freeform, Gen, Hurt Matt Murdock, Hurt/Comfort, I’m bad at writing fight scenes, Seizures, Whump, awkward fight scene, concussion, daredevilbingofill, don’t really know when this is set, post s2?, scratch that i’m bad at writing, slight angst, the black outfit, vigilante stalking (prompt), vigilantes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-21
Updated: 2018-11-21
Packaged: 2019-08-27 02:09:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16693411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Clearfear/pseuds/Clearfear
Summary: He should’ve left Red where he was. Let the cops find him. Shouldn’t have dragged his ass a block to Frank’s car (or, at least, his car for the moment being), and he definitely shouldn’t have brought him into his apartment. What passed for one, anyways. Red woke up when Frank let him fall onto the couch, chest heaving in panic. His hands darted up to his face, checking that his damn mask was still in place.





	Drained

**Author's Note:**

> First, these characters aren’t mine. Second, I’m sure there’s medical inaccuracies in here. Third, this is my first time writing a fic for this fandom. It was originally inspired by #20 and #29 of the Whumptober prompts, but I was too late in finishing it…:/ So it fills the “vigilante stalking” square of my Daredevil bingo card.

The rain poured down in buckets, every fat drop that splatted on the pavement echoing and filling Matt’s ears with sound. He’d always hated going out in the rain—as _Daredevil_ — for that reason. It was actually nice to stop and listen to the way every drop hit objects around him, but not when he was fighting, not when focus was life or death. When he fought, every whisper of sound was important. And it was hard to keep track of every tiny whisper of sound when there were millions of little drops falling around him, each louder than the last. Practice and experience had made it better, but the rain was still a pain in the ass for Daredevil. 

He tuned the noise of the rain out the best he could, focusing his senses on his opponents and suppressing a shiver; his black outfit wasn’t waterproof in any way, and he was soaked in the freezing rainwater. But the chill was driven away by the fire that raced through his veins, the fire that _drove_ him as he threw a punch at the man nearest to him. The guy’s lip split when the blow connected, the faint tang of copper, diluted by saliva, contaminating the air. Metal scraped roughly against pavement— _shit, how had he missed the movement?_ —and Matt turned toward it. The one who’d picked whatever it was up smelled strongly of sweat. The object was probably a crowbar or something similar, judging by the size and smell of medium-carbon steel that came off it. There were only three men surrounding him. He’d definitely had worse odds. Matt profiled them quickly in his head. Sweaty, the one with the crowbar, was slow and clumsy, wheezing from just the effort of picking the crowbar up. The thick jacket he wore didn’t help, but Sweaty hadn’t made a move to take it off and probably wouldn’t at this point. Jittery stood next to him, heartbeat out of control, tense and twitchy. Muscles is the one who he’s just punched, the most formidable of the sorry group. There’s a knife tucked in his belt, and Matt took careful note of it. He wasn’t especially in the mood to get stabbed tonight. 

A voice that sounded curiously close to Claire’s resonated in his mind. _If you really didn’t feel like getting stabbed, you wouldn’t have gone out tonight._ The more rational part of Matt has to agree with Claire. He’d been out all night yesterday too. Hadn’t gotten any sleep, had just taken a quick shower and dressed for the day. Weariness weighed at him. _I’ll sleep in,_ he resolved. Foggy would be annoyed, but they didn’t really have anything scheduled for tomorrow, and the city would be safer for it.

He grinned his most feral grin as he shifted back into a boxing stance. Not a single heartbeat stuttered in any kind of apprehension or fear. Instead, Sweaty made his move, and swung his crowbar clumsily at Matt, who gritted his teeth as he dodged it easily, landing a heavy blow to Sweaty’s face, eliciting a deranged chuckle from Jittery. He continued to land hit after hit on Sweaty, who just grunted and sweated even more, spitting a mouthful of blood in Matt’s direction. It missed him too, landing on the ground with a repulsive _plop_ and mixing with the puddles of water created by the rain. His buddies hadn’t moved a goddamn muscle to help—well, no, Jittery was practically bouncing with excitement, his heartbeat off the charts. A snort of amusement came from Muscles when the crowbar was swung at him. Matt growled under his breath and attempted to knock the crowbar out of Sweaty’s hands again, which made Jittery _squeal_ in excitement. Matt flinched at the rather unexpected noise, and Sweaty’s crowbar managed to connect with his skull in the moment of distraction. His entire world blotted out for a second, and he stumbled backwards, on defense now. But a well-aimed kick got Sweaty as off-balance as Matt was, and another punch was enough to knock his ass to the ground. Guy didn’t even drop the crowbar when he went down. _They’re inseparable,_ Matt thought hazily, suppressing a laugh. 

Muscles had seemed to decide that was enough, sliding the knife he had tucked away out of his sheath and lurching forward. Matt couldn’t focus as well as he’d like.  
“Useless piece of shit,” Muscles grunted in Sweaty’s direction, and turned his attention on Matt, heartbeat accelerating. Matt didn’t give it another second, and launched himself at Muscles, fists flying. Every movement jostled his head, set it aflame in agony. Jittery was still bouncing, his cheers for Muscles echoing faintly in Matt’s ears.  
Somehow, he sent the knife flying from Muscles’ grip in the frenzy. Matt smirked and grabbed his adversary’s wrist. The snap of bone breaking fed the fire, the _devil_ in him and his boot connected with the man’s ribs as well, over and over, sharp _cracks_ reverberating with each kick until Muscles shouted in a mixture of rage and pain. Matt staggered away from Muscle’s bleeding form. His head throbbed terribly and he clenched his fists, just wanting it to _stop_. The need to vomit or curl up and sleep swept over him, all-encompassing. He didn’t want to deal with Jittery, whatever Jittery’s problem was. He wanted to pass out. Jittery laughed, and the sound came out muted, wrong. Panic slipped into Matt’s heartbeat, thundered in his ears. He backed up, feeling _blind_. He felt glass crunching under his boot as he did, and just like Jittery’s laugh, the noise was wrong. The sound rippled, cut out. Fuzzy. The only thing that was clear was the smell of gunpowder. _Wait_.  
He took a moment to process, and by then, it was too late.  
The bullet hit Jittery right in the chest. Blood filled the air. The smell was overwhelming: coated his tongue, permeated his lungs. The urge to vomit sang with the pounding in his head as he fell to his knees. Footsteps cut in and out, faint, and the gunpowder scent was so strong that it now overpowered the blood. 

“Damn it, Frank,” Matt said, or tried to, his words so slurred that even he had trouble understanding them. 

The world blanked. Frank said something, voice a low rumble, but he didn’t try to make sense of it, struggled to get back up. _Get back up. Up, up, up…_  
Everything’s covered in a dense, gunpowder scented fog. Matt’s groan of agony echoed painfully in his own head. Even the anger over Jittery’s needless death was swamped in it. His hearing came back for a moment, pinpointed itself unhelpfully on a nearby ambulance siren. Matt gritted his teeth and tried to ignore it. Someone’s dog was barking, though, and a child a block away was throwing a tantrum. A couple was arguing, a young woman was shrieking in laughter, the crunch of tiny, tiny bones when a stray cat made its catch, and the screech of tires as a pedestrian was narrowly missed all made their way to him. And as quickly as it all surged in, it faded out again.

 

Frank ignored Red’s weak protests. They’re not clear enough for him to make out, but he was doubtlessly trying to tell Frank that he shouldn’t have killed that piece of shit. He should kill the other two, as well. He raised the 9mm to do just that, but Red’s gotten back to to his feet—of course, the idiot doesn’t give up, just doesn’t know how. 

“Don’t,” he gasped, leaning against the wall heavily. His stupid black mask is soaked in blood that collects at the edge and drips slowly, steadily down his neck. 

Frank gritted his teeth. “Get outta here, Red. This isn’t your problem anymore.” They’re his, his problem, his duty. The fat one with the crowbar has woken up, was staring down the barrel of Frank’s gun like a deer caught in headlights. The other one, the one Red beat the shit out of, is just now slipping out of consciousness, blood bubbling on his cracked lips with every breath.

Red’s breathing was labored, and it took him a long time to reply. Still, all he did was repeat, “Don’t.” His legs shook like they could barely support his weight and he pressed closer to the wall, face twisting in pain briefly before it’s hidden away, quick as it came. “Don’t, don’t…do it.” He butchered the words so badly Frank wondered how hard of a blow to the head he took. He continued to repeat the word, over and over until it turned into a single incoherent stream of constant muttering. 

“God damn it, Red,” Frank snarled, real vehemence in voice, because he couldn’t stand this, couldn’t stand the way Red had to make everything so _hard_. Without thinking, Frank slammed the butt of the gun into Crowbar guy’s temple as hard as he could, all his effort focused into not doing it again, not pounding the motherfucker’s face over and over again until it’s a shapeless mound of _meat._ And that seemed to be enough for Red, because Red—Red just let go, his shaking legs finally giving out as he slumped down the wall bonelessly. 

The sound of sirens made Frank freeze. A run-in with the cops is the last fucking thing he needed. They pass by the alley and keep going until they fade completely, though. Like Red’s God is looking after him tonight. Frank snorted at the thought. There was no God. The shit he’d seen _good_ people, _good_ soldiers go through…There wasn’t anyone or anything watching over them, and if there was, He was a giant prick. Frank shook himself. He needed to get the hell out here, now. If that siren wasn’t for them, surely the next one would be. _Someone_ had to have heard that gunshot and called the police by now. And tonight must be a night for bad ideas, because he took Red’s arm over his shoulder. Red made another useless noise that resembled a word but wasn’t quite as he did, and Frank set off, dragging an idiot with him. 

 

He should’ve left Red where he was. Let the cops find him. Shouldn’t have dragged his ass a block to Frank’s car (or, at least, his car for the moment being), and he definitely shouldn’t have brought him into his apartment. What passed for one, anyways. Red woke up when Frank let him fall onto the couch, chest heaving in panic. His hands darted up to his face, checking that his damn mask was still in place. 

“Where’m I?” He slurred, clearly relieved that his mask hadn’t been removed. His head swiveled towards Frank when he sighed. 

“My place,” is all Frank offered back, settling on the cot that creaked and protested with every movement he made and thinking, _Not for much longer._ It’s past time he moved again, especially now that Red knew where his place was. “Should let me check that,” Frank said, referring to Red’s head and definite concussion as he wiped blood off the 9mm. Still regrets not killing that asshat. Would’ve been a hell of a lot cleaner.

“…No,” Red groaned finally. “I’m…I have to…” he frowned. Or Frank thinks it’s a frown. Hard to tell. Most of his face is covered by onyx fabric or blood. “Where am I?” Red asked again, demonstrating that he’s not in a state to be going anywhere. Maybe a hospital, save Frank a headache. 

“My shithole of an apartment.” Frank continued to rub the gun clean, slow, methodic. It put his hands to work that they desperately needed. Calmed him, relaxed him, like reading or watching television. But so did lining people up in the crosshairs of his rifle. When he glanced up again, Red was trying to stand. “Sit down.” 

He either ignored Frank or didn’t hear him, because he grabbed the arm of the couch for support and drew himself up into an unsteady standing position. Frank’s just wondered if he should let the idiot go and get himself knocked right back on his ass again when Red stiffens. He inhaled sharply before falling with a loud thump and another groan. His jaw clenched tightly, visibly under the sickly yellow light as he stiffened again—and Frank was across the room in a heartbeat, cursing under his breath. He turned Red on his side as he seized, involuntary grunts escaping his lips. “Easy, easy,” Frank found himself murmuring, carefully pillowing Red’s head with lap. _Fuck, fuck, fuck…_ Red’s body continued to shake against Frank’s filthy floor. How long had it been? Frank was supposed to be counting or some shit like that, he was pretty sure. But Red’s convulsions were already starting to slow as soon as the thought crossed his mind. “That’s it, there,” Frank said, Lisa in his mind. He’d held her that one night she’d gotten the stomach flu, patted her small back and pinned her hair up and murmured, _“That’s it, there, it’s alright…”_ The brief memory made him shut his mouth, made him keep it closed. Red isn’t Lisa. Isn’t anything close. And Lisa’s gone. He pulled the black mask off. Let it drop to the floor with a sticky plop. Red’s eyes were rolled back into his head as he shuddered, face coated in dried blood. Frank blinked, leaned back. Knew that face. Of course he did. Harder to recognize without the tinted glasses that hid Red’s useless, unseeing eyes. But it was definitely him, the damn lawyer that couldn’t be bothered to show up to the trial. Son of a bitch. Red groaned and his eyes slid back closed as the tremors melted from him. Frank checked Red’s pulse, trying to remember his name. It started with an M, he’s damn sure… There was a laceration on the side of Red’s head, where Crowbar Asshole must’ve got him with the crowbar. It has stopped bleeding, the scarlet liquid congealed and drying, matting his hair. Frank sighed and got to work. 

_Cold_ was the first thing that registered in Matt’s mind as he struggled back to wakefulness. Fuzzy noises, smells, sensations washed over him in waves, rushed over him, overwhelmed him—aftershave, rhythmic tapping, the rough fabric of the couch underneath him—and ebbed away again, left him blank again. Eventually he became aware that there was an ice pack on him, layered over the worst of the throbbing pain in his head that’s making everything so hard to think, to focus. For a weak moment he wanted the blackness back, wanted that place of _unawareness_ where everything was dark and nothing but at least the pain in his head wasn’t there. In the snapshots of awareness, he remembered: gunpowder and exhaustion, asphalt and the creaking of abused bed springs, pain the one constant. He _can’t_ rest, he’s not _Matt_ , he’s _Daredevil._ Cool air breezed over his face and his heart stopped. His mask was gone. He was barely aware of the way the icepack clattered to the floor, of someone yelping when he got to his feet. There’s a callused hand on his shoulder telling him to _slow the fuck down_ , Red. The voice reminded him of the sound of bullets piercing flesh and the taste of blood in his tongue. 

Frank.

“Sit down, Red. If you have another fit I’m dropping you by the hospital. Should’ve done it already,” he huffed. 

Matt didn’t sit, curled his lip and growled, “Why didn’t you?”, instead. Frank didn’t give a verbal reply. He shoved Matt back towards the couch until the backs of his knees were pressed against it and he had no choice but to sit, then picked up the icepack and tossed it at Matt. Matt let it hit the couch cushion and left it there. He lifted his chin, hoping his gaze landed somewhere near Frank.  
“You’re lucky I was keeping tabs on you, or—” Matt cut Frank off when he finally spoke. 

“It’s not your job to stalk me, Frank! It’s not your job to put a bullet in anyone you think deserves it!” The smell of Jittery’s blood echoed in his subconscious. His ears were filled with his own heartbeat, in time with the throbbing in his head. 

“Yeah?” Frank sounds tired. Drained. 

Matt let it rest, senses swimming. Frank hadn’t mentioned who he was under the mask. He had to have recognized him. Obviously doesn’t give a damn, like he said. Matt wondered absently where his mask was. His ebbing and flowing awareness was only ebbing now. The voice that always told him to _get back up, always get back up_ is silent. It didn’t bother him when the blackness came. Maybe it was the concussion. Maybe he was just _tired_. But he welcomed it with open arms.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
